


set adrift

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Dancing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Other, gender neutral reader, listen if this is going to be my first explicit work here i'm glad it's for the drifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: "...Guardians like to keep lookin’ and lookin’ for explanations and when I tell ‘em about the Dark Ages or the Darkness, they run like rabbits. Maybe they don’t like the talk, or bein’ compatible, or they tell me that I don’t play well with others.” The aged lines around his eyes crinkle as he gives a wide, toothy smile. “Only reason you’re here is ‘cause I haven’t scared you yet.”---The Drifter and the Guardian take a moment to slow down.





	set adrift

**Author's Note:**

> *slams a folder filled with drifter hcs* so im new in town but i got a lot to say

The Drifter owes nothing to the universe.

But sometimes, he’s willing to make a trade for the passing Guardian.

He finds you surrounded by dismantled weapons and mods on the rooftops directly above the garage. _I bet Banshee would go offline if he saw a mess like this,_ the Drifter had joked as he eyed the mess. Every week like clockwork you maintained your weapons by hand-- an outdated technique which existed before the Dark and Golden Ages, when Ghosts were non-existent. Your past remains a haze, but muscle memory if nothing else stalked you through decades of death.

“What do you miss most about before?” he asks one day.

“The music,” you reply, keeping your eyes low on the rifle in your lap, your back to the shattered Traveler. “The slow kind. They called it soul music, I think.”

“Not a fan of the new tech stuff, huh?” The Drifter smiles crookedly. “Y’know, I jacked some songs from the Collective on Venus. You been? Anyways, if you, uh, bring me something good, I’ll play you some music.” He thinks the offer is fair. Then the days scroll past and he watches you from afar, in Gambit and Crucible.

The Dawning passes, too, but the weather conditions lingers. On occasion it blankets the City in a fine, fleeting powder, such as on the night he finally confronts the Guardian. The Drifter slams the garage doors shut for the evening and squints up at the gray, stormy skies. Was that his imagination or a moving shadow? He arrives at the slick rooftops in time to witness a bundle of cleaned rifles enter transmat-- back to your ship or quarters, presumably.

You nod at him as you readjust a heavy winter cloak around your shoulders. He doesn’t bother with greetings. The Drifter simply folds his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows. “I, uh, gotta say. Can’t leave a guy hangin’ on a deal, no matter the stakes.” He scratches his beard, seeming indifferent. “If you’re not interested, just say so. I got Gambit, I got-- I got a lot on my plate, and--”

You toss him a bar of chocolate wrapped in shiny foil. “Good enough?” you ask.

The Drifter breaks a piece off, pops it in his mouth, and winks.

His Ghost buzzes around his head before emitting various pitches shifting and blurring into a polyrhythm of instruments, into something recognizable as music. The sounds are grainy and coarse and most importantly, authentic. You slowly advance towards the Ghost with astonishment written all over your face. The Drifter lazily settles against a railing with another piece of chocolate between his teeth. He offers you some and the lure works like a charm. You end up mere moments from him and realize for the first time, as you glance over to the Drifter, that he’s much older than you anticipated. You can read his age on his worn, scarred face and his cutting gaze.

“Do you know how to dance?” you ask.

He scoffs. “Shit, why in the world would I wanna dance?” You stand up, spin round, and hold out both of your hands, palms to the sky. An invitation, rather than bait. The bearded Guardian thinks, maybe you’re not too used to mischief thanks to the City’s strict regulations.

“I’ll teach you,” you say earnestly. “C’mon. It’s good music, it deserves some attention besides nostalgia.” There’s a devious twinkle in your eyes. “And besides, no one would ever believe me if I said I danced with the Drifter.”

A smile tugs at his lips. He licks chocolate smears off his gloves, stalling, and then with a grunt, sets the half-eaten chocolate bar down. “One song,” the Drifter warns. Then he wraps his fingers around your wrists and suddenly yanks you flush against his wide chest, his leather gloves resting on your hips. “I never said that I couldn’t dance. Might even show you a thing or two.”

He pivots and practically swings you through the air round and round. You shriek and clasp your hands around his neck, avoiding his bristling spalders. “Drifter! Put me down!”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you!”

“Slow down!”

The first song ends and the second begins. The Drifter finally lets you back on the ground and he bumps your chin playfully. You like that when he smiles-- like when he is genuinely happy-- one of his eyes squints slightly. “Life ain’t gonna slow down for you, hon,” he says, a little out of breath, whether from the dance or the jumpy nerves, he’s not sure he wants to know.

You haven’t unlaced your fingers yet. Eyeing him carefully, you ask, “Are you?”

The whirling snowflakes continue their slow, slow spiral through the evening dark. His dark hair and furs are sprinkled with the melting flurries; a few catch in his long, thick eyelashes. You know when he flexes his fingers on your hips, shifting over the fabric, when he finally relaxes his tense stance and attitude; he yields to your request.

The Drifter takes a swaying step backwards, and then another. He tries to teach you the lonely rhythm in his head; unsure of its origin, unsure of its reception.

He barely has the height advantage: His strength comes in the broad shoulders and stout frame, hidden by all those layers. Dizzy from spinning the two of you push and pull like magnets. His nose brushes against your brow. Then your foreheads knock together in an effort to ground each other. The pre-Golden Age music continues to echo against the city avenues and alleys, its low and empathetic language reminiscent of old Warlock texts. Some city dwellers pause by their open windows as the distant melody strikes their intuition of something aged, something achingly familiar.

The Drifter suddenly takes one of your hands and presses it against his clothed chest.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, pausing his motions as fight-or-flight instincts paralyze your body. He squeezes your hand lightly. “It’s okay. Slow, right?”

Slowly, and slower yet, the Drifter removes your glove and then guides your fingers between the folds of his dark emerald collar.

His breath hitches as you rest against his naked skin, buried and hidden underneath his strange clothes. You sense him in every involuntary twitch of his muscles, in the way he flicks his bright eyes across your face, seeking and searching for answers. _Who are you? Why am I here? What do you mean to me?_

“Did you…” you inhale sharply. “Do you like the chocolate?”

He hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. It’s bitter, it’s good. My favorite.”

“I can get more next time. If you want.”

“I’d like that,” he agrees softly. The Drifter then glances upward to the clouded skies. He still has his hand wrapped over yours, the other like a tether on your hip. And he still guides you in an unhurried dance, back and sideways side, forward and sideways, over and over again. Like a waltz. You can feel his heart pounding under your fingers. “You’re, uh, different,” he says quietly, sheepishly, “I don’t think I’d dance with other people. Most don’t get this far.”

“What do you mean?"

“I dunno. Guardians like to keep lookin’ and lookin’ for explanations and when I tell ‘em about the Dark Ages or the Darkness, they run like rabbits. Maybe they don’t like the talk, or bein’ compatible, or they tell me that I don’t play well with others.” The aged lines around his eyes crinkle as he gives a wide, toothy smile. “Only reason you’re here is ‘cause I haven’t scared you yet.”

“That’s not true. I like the music.”

“Mm. Yeah, me too,” he admits. “You got good taste.”

Snowfall slows and then halts completely. So does the song. The silence stretches and stretches and becomes a moment, then a minute, as you and the Drifter look at each other without knowing (or caring) what comes next. That’s practically how he’s lived his entire life.

So when he leans down and presses a soft kiss against your lips, he takes his own sweet time.

“You taste good, too,” the Drifter mutters. He clears his throat. “Hey, uh, thanks for the--”

He has no time to finish when your arms hook around his neck and you kiss him back, perhaps a little rushed, a little sloppy, but the Drifter welcomes it. You want this; he needs this; or so that’s how it’s phrased. He breaks away to murmur, _Yours or mine?,_ and you tell him to choose. Grasping you tightly, his lips and beard scrape against your sensitive jawline as his Ghost transmats the two of you onto _The Derelict_.

You barely take in the surroundings-- a simple bedroom, dark painted walls, large, ceiling-to-floor windows which showcase Earth’s shrouded colors-- when the Drifter unfastens your cloak and lets it pool on the ground. He removes the holstered hand canon jammed in his waistband, sets it down on a desk, then undoes the belt buckles. His outer robes slumps in a pile of clothes, joining both pairs of boots and gloves. The Drifter yanks your shirt over your head. Before you can reciprocate, he’s got his mouth slanted against yours as he falls backwards on the bed.

He watches as you straddle him and carefully unlace the forest green _gi_. While you help him slide his arms out of the wide sleeves, he sees your eyes and lips part with measured surprise. After all, what sort of rogue wouldn’t have scars? His body is covered with deep, ridged scars similar to the ones on his face. Some longer than your forearm. Some as wide as your wrist. You run your fingers along the disfigured, puckered skin, and the Drifter groans, his entire body following your touch like a marionette on a string.

“Ah… ah, that feels-- that hits the spot,” he whispers, cracking an eye open to look at you. “Oh honey, you make a man wanna get on his knees.” You giggle at the saccharine nickname. It sounds so perfect in his lazy drawl. He smirks. “You like it when I call you ‘honey’?” The Drifter slides his hands down your back, then squeezes your ass playfully.

You slide off his headband, tossing it to the floor. You kiss and search his mouth for every intimate secret, every meaningful gambit. He’s warm, warmer than any Guardian simply plucked off the streets. The Light burns with each arduous, slow roll of his hips against yours and though it’s not uncommon for individuals’ Light to resonate like feedback--

\--the Drifter is ever shifting and changing. Solar, Void, and Arc all at once, barley contained below the marred surface of his skin. One moment the air ripples with static electricity, pins and needles sinking into bare skin. Void steals your breath and leaves him gasping for more. Then the Gunslinger shines through in hues of gold as his eyes never stray from your face.

You both fumble with your trousers and shove down your briefs, foreheads knocking, words slurring, Light and adrenaline running high. He twists and reaches for the nightstand drawer, and then smears lube on his fingers. Biting his lip, he strokes himself hard. His dark eyes flutter with waves of pleasure and he bucks into his firm grasp. Then those same fingers find your entrance and you dig your nails into his shoulders, eagerly riding his fingers as he opens you up.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he praises, grinning smugly from ear-to-ear. “C’mon, sugar, gods, I bet you taste so sweet--"

He keeps the pace gentle and slow, just the way you like it, just like the music which echoes in your minds. You place your hands on his bearded cheeks and trail along his frostbitten cheeks as if you were wiping all the dark shadows and sleepless nights which followed him from the galaxy depths.

And maybe, part of him realizes that this slow pace was for _him_ , a man who makes a living on infamy. Death walks in his footsteps. Long before the monoliths, he’d known no peace and felt no regrets. Now with you in his arms, hundreds of miles from Earth’s surface, he might find a brief respite from the centuries-long journey gnashing at his worn heels.

“Your Light,” you note, distractedly kneading his scars. “It feels so fragile. Like a candle with long shadows.”

“I’ve been hustlin’ the Dark for so long, I gotta-- it makes me think,” the Drifter murmurs, “maybe I don’t have to fight it all the time. It wants me. I bet it wants you. I can use it.”

“Show me.”

He grins wickedly. “And _that’s_ why you’re my favorite, Guardian.” The Drifter grabs your chin and pulls you in for a deep, filthy kiss. And like an afterthought, it melts into something gentler. Still far too intimate for ships merely passing through the cosmos, his mouth, his lips, his touch softens and his sigh comes, exalted and incredulous.

He crooks his fingers and coaxes a drawn-out keen from your body as your legs cinch around his wrist, then pulls out, swiping a tongue across the slick. Cradling the nape of your neck, he eases you on his length. “Relax, honey,” he whispers in your ear as your muscles shiver at his gradual entrance. The sensation of him-- invading so deliciously, delicately-- teases from the brink of too much, too much, then when he eventually bottoms out the Drifter sees a look of pure euphoria cross your face. Words dwindle. You begin rocking back-and-forth in his lap. Something like a whimper escapes him.

Your head tilts back; the Drifter wraps a large hand around your exposed throat, all the breath knocked out of him.

Easy prey.

Vulnerable.

Far from innocent but damn if you’re not the closest thing to _decent_ in a long, long time.

His body convulses, but it’s not Light which pours through his person, it’s something rich and thick as molasses, viscous and sticky. There’s no name for this feeling (though it comes with many names like guilt or hunger or love). It simply, completely envelops your bodies as the oozing, warm sensation melts and pools from his to yours. You ride the ebb and flow of the strangeness and briefly remember the acrid tastes of the Ascendant Plane and its Taken. It’s powerful, enticing, and the Drifter kisses you with lips as cold as ice.

 “Gods, you’re-- so _good_ \--" the Drifter whispers between stuttered moans. A trembling hand palms down the length of your body. “So-- _bright_ \--” He counts the moments where your bodies meet, he relishes in them.

The Darkness loves company; it loves the Light. It consumes like a hunger. There’s not a force in this forsaken system which could compete on its level-- except maybe itself. Feed it. Watch the head bite its own tail.

You groan into his mouth as the mounting pleasure finally cracks and you grab his shoulders, gasping his name as he fucks you through your climax. He follows close behind, losing his rhythm as the Dark and Light mingles like they were never, or always, supposed to. “F-fuck! Fuck, fuck--” he gasps as he’s robbed for every last bit of control and he comes. His skull buzzes. Every part of him aches. His breathing is ragged and uneven while he tries to regain his composure, but he can feel a hot blush on his face. Gods, it’s embarrassing, it’s--

And then you kiss him so gently that it _hurts_ and he forgets what it means to be scared.

His head hits the pillows. You follow suit, cuddling up at his side. The two of you shuffle slightly before discovering what works for him and for you. “There are, uh, other ways,” the Drifter mumbles distractedly, idly tracing up and down your bare arm. By the look of things, you’re ready to crash and fall asleep in his arms. Not that he’d be opposed to such an idea. “To use the Darkness, I mean. The Hive worship it, the Vex wanna kill it.”

“Why do you wanna use it?” you ask.

“For good sex?”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.”

The Drifter laughs. “C’mon, you see it on the field all the time; it’s how we made Malfeasance. How’s that old saying go, ‘The best defense is a good offense’?” He feels your breath hitch and he steels himself for the accusations, the tantrum, the blind declaration of how Light will always beat the Dark. He’s heard it all before.

“I guessed so.” _Alright, so that’s new._

But he knows you’re smart. You’ve been paying attention to rumors surrounding him and the convenient dead. The City whispers that the Drifter is the last name to be crossed out by an enemy without a name: The hunter of the Shadows of Yor, the Man with the Golden Gun, the Renegade.

“You keep talking about rounding up a crew,” you sigh. “Like another fireteam. You want to feel safe against someone who wants to hurt you. Who?”

The Drifter presses his lips against your forehead and answers softly, “Names don’t matter. No Guardian’s ever gonna kill me.” He closes his bright eyes. “You can bet on it.”

**Author's Note:**

> the song which plays in my mind when the drifter and guardian dance is Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier


End file.
